Thursday

Jun 21, 2018 at 11:50 AM

Glossing over Vivienne Westwood’s association with the Sex Pistols is like barely mentioning the Civil War in a profile of Abraham Lincoln. But that’s exactly what Lorna Tucker does in her slipshod look at the celebrated fashion designer in “Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist.” Come on, Viv’s interaction with Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten is what everyone is slavering to get up close and personal about. But Tucker denies us that pleasure by simply taking “no” for an answer when she dares broach the subject early on in her fawning hagiography.

Westwood withdraws even farther when the subject turns to the iconic punk group’s manager, Malcolm McLaren, to whom she bore son, Joe, and co-founded the legendary King’s Row record and clothing store, SEX. It was there that the Sex Pistols were born -- and outfitted in iconoclastic punk wear sporting swastikas and crucifixes. Anarchy in the U.K., indeed! So how could Tucker let Westwood get away with refusing to talk about two essential elements of her career? If she’s not going to dish on McLaren and the Pistols, why bother make the movie?

Truth is, she’d shouldn’t of. What’s here is pretty vacant for anyone beyond Westwood-philes looking for justification for their adoration. The rest of us are left twiddling thumbs, as Tucker, a former fashion model, does little more than cobble together YouTube clips with random talking-head interviews with Westwood’s two sons, her longtime husband, Andreas Kronthaler, and various other friends and associates. Very little of it sticks, leaving the uninitiated to ask: “What’s all the fuss?”

It’s certainly not her ragged fashions, most of which I’d classify as rubbish, or at least what little we’re made privy. Her “good” stuff, the red-carpet gowns worn by the likes of movie stars and Princess Diana, oddly are never shown. There’s also a wan attempt at taking issue with Tucker selling out her anti-establishment values to make a pretty shilling off her boutiques, 120 of them worldwide. But her CEO, Carlo D’Amario, is quick to note that the Vivienne Westwood brand remains an independent operation employing 400 people.

Tucker also meekly calls out Westwood for the juxtaposition of her environmental activism and the owning of a company that does its share of contributing to global warming. But, again, nothing much comes of it. Blink, you might even miss it. That’s a problem throughout, and it’s all rooted in the film’s lack of structure. It bounces back and forth in time so often the viewer can’t help but be confused. And even at an absurdly brief 75 minutes, Tucker struggles to fill, padding the runtime with B-list celebrities like Pamela Anderson and Christina Hendricks praising their favorite clothier.

Then there’s Westwood herself, a woman who doesn’t subscribe to pleasantries. Some might even call the cranky 77-year-old, arrogant. But then she has a right to be haughty about her haute couture, given her two Designer of the Year honors and gaining the title Dame after being awarded the Order of the British Empire in 1992, a dubbing capped by Westwood lifting her gown and showing that she indeed forgot her knickers. And, yes, Tucker includes a clip of that prank, although I could have lived without seeing it.

At least that famous “twirl” is more interesting than the seemingly endless interviews with the overly pretentious Kronthaler, a former student of Vivienne’s who Westwood credits for much of her success. But his skill as a designer is obviously more involving than his empty, drawn-out responses to Tucker’s queries. And did we really need to see him modeling his “Frack Me” undershorts? Far more fun is Westwood’s gregarious assistant, Peppe Lorefice; always good for a chuckle, especially when caught mocking a ranting Kronthaler by using his pen to simulate fellatio. If only the rest of her motley crew was this clever. It’s not. And I couldn’t agree more when Westwood responds to Tucker’s tired questions by quipping, “I’m totally bored with this, but if you need it...” We don’t. And even though Westwood might take offense, I think the Sex Pistols put it best when they said “never mind the bollocks.”